The Way

Other acts of violence were inscribed on there, though that was the most prominent. The name of the leader was quite long, for his acts were so diverse and he took so much pleasure in them. He was most often called Begetter of Violence. As Begetter stood before the dangling corpses he took his knife from its place on his belt and smashed the chest of the first one, striking and separating the rib cage before tearing it open, he then reached his fist into the gash and moved those hungry fingers through the soft flesh, tearing at the lungs and gripping the still heart with his fist, ripping it from its bondage within, severing it with his blade and then biting into it with a fierce passion, his lips smeared with the red of the pink flesh, as with his hands, the clear juice running down his chin.

Begetter of Violence then turned to the fire and plunged his hand into the heat before letting go, dropping the pink and red heart before stepping over to the second body, and repeating the process, though not as easily. The chest proved more difficult to shatter and separate to expose the tender organs within. Again he reached within, and tore at the dead flesh of the cadaver, letting bits run from the gaping hole before ripping what his soul desired, and once again biting deep into the strong flesh of the heart as though it were a golden red apple. His lips wrapped around it in warm embrace as his teeth pierced it before, the still warm flesh slipping down his gullet before he turned to the side and plunged this heart too into the fire with his other hand.

Reaching for the sky in celebration, all the Clark’s cheered their victory and their zealous dispatch of the prisoners. The bodies were cut down and burned, fueling the bright tongues.

Sometime during the night the desert began to rumble and some of the sand dance and quake, though none head it, as they were drunk on liqueurs fermented from the flesh of the cacti which they drank from flasks and bottle that they broke, dashing them to bits in the fire. The women had begun pairing off with their favored men, though, not always only in pairs. After a while the pulse slowed and on the edge of the evening’s resting place, a large black shadow moved through the pavilions and hide shelters till its black shell stood out into the firelight with the occasional glistening of metal through the ash here and there, a large hammer in hand. Some were startled and backed away; others were too drunk to even care. Still others were too lost in their passions and sweaty embraces about the bonfire to stop. The leader stood and admired the armor from the far end of the fire.

He grunted a greeting, neither warm nor welcome, but there was lust in his eyes, and any clear minded man or woman could see the fire spreading out before a blood smeared metal warrior.

The figure wearing the object of Begetter’s lust replied by reaching back and stripping off the helmet, clear of soot and ash, but scored by fire and dented from a great act of abuse, dangling it to the side. Broken Spears stood before them, his hair burned away and his face twisted with healing burns, but clearly identifiable in the light of the fire.

Begetter of Violence opened his eyes a little wider with surprise, though few others reacted at all. Moans of passion and drunkenness filled the night and those not yet intoxicated returned to their drinking, their alarm subsiding because Broken Spears was one of them. The crackling of the fire rose above all else.


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The armor-clad warrior stepped out into the night, his hammer swinging with his easy stride. His great pain was hidden behind ash smeared and fire scored metal. The entrance to the building behind him, buried in the mountain’s side, unveiled him from the velvet shadows of an interior devoid of all life with each step. Once free from the embrace of the shaded gate he arched his arm above his head, grasping his helmet from its rear and cracking it off and removing it from his head.

Behind the mask of the dinged helmet was a face singed, red and feverish. The hammer fell into the sand and the armor began to crack apart as he opened it up and allowed it to fall one way as he fell another, savoring the fresh air and the brief relief it brought to his raw and cooked flesh. Red flesh of his back glistened in the starlight shimmering around his inked name, Broken Spears. Several other marks were inked into his flesh, but these were by far the most prominent. Soon blisters started to form and so he spent little time relaxing and put the armor back on when his senses had fully returned from him, enduring the painful heat from his skin and the sand rubbing against the burn, each grain like a fiery spear.

Broken Spears traveled quickly, the armor carrying his weight and moving him with superior speed and strength despite his injuries. For a the next day and the next night he walked, protected from the sun and cooled by his shell before he came to the nearest spring in the side of the mountain from which cool fresh water poured. Once again he dropped the armor about him, followed by his pack and began to wash his wounds, opening the pouch, he pulled salves and cloth which he tore into bandages for places where his blisters had begun to break and run.

He also drank deep and refilled the flasks that he carried with him. For two whole weeks he hid himself in the crack of the mountain treating his wounds with care, and suffering as scars spread across his skin. Healing was slow, and incomplete, but at that time he had rested too long. Dawning his armor, Broken Spears began the long journey home.




The evening was cool and bright with a half moon in the sky over the camp of the Clark tribe. Stars glistened across the sky and the wind blew cool, but calm, gentle enough to let the sand lay still. The Clarks were somewhat at rest, the hunters had returned and their shelters were complete for the evening, they had worked hard and all were enjoying a great feast, the greatest Clark hunters had killed well. The tribe indulged in burning a huge bonfire, despite the scarcity of fuel because they had done well at collecting and pillaging from other tribes.

The youthful tribe leader watched all and two prisoners of war were brought out and their blood was spilled at the great bonfire. Their necks were gashed and their bodies strung upside down till they drained empty, feeding the light with black pools ran into violent flames. The leader walked towards the corpses, his back to the fire and his name silhouetted against his brown skin depicting a man shackling many other men. This was a part of the name of every member of the Clark.


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“There is a whole other way.”

“So what is this?”

“That… That’s actually not anything that’s really important unless you’ve never read before, in which case anything with words is like a new world. We will teach you to read, and then it will be only as valuable as the information it carries, but for now, it will be like food for you.”

Wrinkles sprang up faintly around the boy’s nose as he traced his finger over the ties holding the pages together. Inscribed on the cover were a few words that to him were no more than markings in the sand and footprints. It read: The Crisis.

“Before you sleep tonight, we will begin teaching you. Your world will be forever changed by the way of this moment.”


<- Page 13 Page 15 ->

“Most plants make their own soil, producing it as they survive, they keep making it as they spread. Think of all of this as being very, very old, and spreading over all that time along the path of…” Teacher kneeled down and took his stick, twirling it in to the sand at the very edge of the loose, sparse soil with a plant nearby. After a moment he pulled it up with thick extremely wet sand on the end of it.

“In a month the plants could be buried with sand and dead, a month after that they could be free to take from both the light of the sun and the water below and burst with life in the soil. Notice how small they are, but notice also how rich the life around this line along which the water flows when the sand is this low. Water is a common need among almost all living things. People are as likely to cluster such lines and underground rivers as anything else. They are superior for hunting, looking for fruits or nuts, and trading. However, were I to be personally to be chased by an enemy, I would avoid it like a diseased carcass.”

The boy found a plant with a plant with gourd fruit that was being picked at by small animals, and he soon trapped it to catch larger ones as it was beginning to get dark and a good breakfast was always welcome.




With each passing day, week, more skills and teachings were imparted to the youth as he followed in the stranger’s footsteps. They spoke of nothing other than the way, and its influences and practices in the real world. The old man could hardly be a stranger still, though the boy knew little of them. How little can a master and student know of each other? In a way, maybe nothing could be known with a diligent will, but in another way, nothing at all could be hidden, regardless of diligence.

After some considerable time, the teacher relented that there would be no persuading the boy to leave. Perhaps he had been too kind, and definitely he had been too generous with his teachings thus far. It was too late to do otherwise, the work must be completed, and deeper fundamentals would have to be taught before real growth of the boy’s soul could ever occur; the sort of growth that he would never have achieved as a member of his own tribe of warriors.

“There are only a few things that I will absolutely expect of you if you will not give up following me. One of them is that you must learn to read.”

“Read?”

“Did any of the Re’nan read?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Then you will be the first, it is a skill you will find most indispensable.”

“Is it anything like archery?”

The Teacher smiled and rustled a hand inside of his robes, searing the pocket till he pulled out a small pack of papers bound between some cured leather.

“Imagine if you could talk to someone who lived a thousand years ago, on the other side of the world. The ability to read, is sort of like the ability to do that. Say the words we say, we also talk with our hands when we signal, right?”

“Right…”

Placing his feet so as to do a small turn, the teacher leaned over and handed the bound pages to the boy.


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The boy stopped his preparation of the food, he was tired, overworked, and he didn’t feel as though he were doing anything wrong at all. He put down the sharp stone he was cutting with and looked up.

“No, you’re not doing anything wrong, but you’re not doing it particularly right either, do you see what I mean?”

Learner shook his head and sighed, but he waited eagerly for instruction.

“Everything you ever do must be done with a certain care. The way you walk, the way you breathe even. As you work up from those basic things nothing else needs more care and attention. Work when you are tired and focus on the most basic aspects of it, the more you do the better you will be. You cannot help but to improve, even at the simplest skills of hunting, foraging, and food preparation.”

Pointing to a part of the animal that the boy was cutting the old man asked, “Do you see this seam right here running from the belly to the neck?” When the boy nodded he continued, “You would have an easier time if you cut along it, the skin would peel easier and you would be able to work better with the meat and removing it from the bone, do you see?”

A nod and less of a frown was the assent he received.

“Good, now look here…” And so the lesson continued for over an hour even as the boy was already exhausted, he strived to remember everything. Demonstrating on the large lizard that they would be eating, the master pointed out and gave examples of all the ways in which it could be dissected for purposes of cooking and eating. He took great pains to emphasize that not only were the fruits of his efforts cleaner, but it was shorter and required less effort.

The boy took to the lesson well, though it was a strenuous effort. His focus was constantly shifting from words about anatomy and cutting to reprimands and reminders to focus on his breathing and even it out. It was, however, the perfect time for it all, as the longer he worked at it in such an exhausted shape the better formed his movements and the more memory of what to do he retained.

After the first was complete under the watchful eye of the teacher, the boy did another one on his own, practicing what he had learned. When he was done with that the teacher spoke again, saying, “Very, very good. Now, when you’re done, I want you to go about preparing a third for good measure, after that, you should sleep”
With that, he closed his eyes and began drowsing.




“All things need resources to live, however they choose to do it. A farmer needs land, a trader needs people, a lord needs servants, and so on and so forth.”
The pair followed along a trail of one small growing thing after another as the lesson was taught. Each plant seemed to thrive in its own way. The teacher then went on to say, “Plants this healthy need soil, not sand, and water more than what comes from the rain here.”

“Where does the soil come from?”


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“To be sure, so, were you to return and find your tribe dead would you kneel down and spill out all of your blood onto the sand?”

“I…”

“You find it hard to answer the question?”

“A little.”

“I imagine the concept to be quite a trying one. There are no shames which you would prefer to live with, including, perhaps with some, possibly even a large degree, suffering?”

The boy’s face fell a bit as the issue escaped him, forgetting his original objection to the idea and wondering why he felt so lost. It still seemed so wrong but he could not see why, or why it wasn’t wrong.

“We are not judges here, you and I. I myself am perhaps a poor soul to model my life after, I feel and I find it harsh to presume the right and wrongs of others.”

“Why are you so poor a model?”

“What makes me, and what I believe, so absolute? Who is to say that I myself in their shoes would do differently, we have lived separate lives they and I. I can say only that each should do, as he feels is right. In that way, I can find fault in no one at all.”

“I don’t really understand.”

“Maybe I am wrong, who is to say? What else is there to do but try to find what little meaning there is in life, and justify what we do know? That’s what I’ve done and you are certainly free to find otherwise and follow another path.”

“My tribe never owned any slaves.”

“Do you think it’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“To own a slave is destructive to both the master and slave. Here, in this place where we live, the damage is already done, it is a course of lifestyle.”

“What?”

“Your tribe never owned slaves because it never was large enough to fight and capture another tribe without such great loss that the victory would be bitter. They never became slaves because they were never found by a tribe that was large enough to do so to them. You have to be a slave to take one. But, we are all already slave, and the type of imprisonment that must be accepted in order to do so would seem too easy to pluck up from the ground like it were a ripe date. You pity the slave, but you are blind to the pain in the driver’s heart.”

The old man took a bit of dried fruit from inside his pouch and chewed on it for a bit before finishing. “It’s just as well, the driver is equally unaware of his own suffering, whereas the slave is not. Why should anyone else be aware if the sufferer isn’t?”

Having much to ponder, the boy was silent as they continued to walk forward to he knew not where. But the words compelled him, and more than anything, he was filled with a sense of wonder at what he did not know, and he was curious if perhaps the old man felt the same.




“You expend too much effort. When you move to accomplish ago you should do so with as little effort as possible. It is the mark of great skill when one goes about their works with great conviction and will and accomplishes them with the use of less energy than others performing similar tasks.”


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“If you’d like to forge yourself against pain, then why don’t you roll in the sand and tear your flesh raw against it, or leave your sandals behind and walk barefoot in the sand heated all day by the lady. A wise warrior does not have to suffer pain to learn, he can look ahead and know without walking on the hot sand that his feet would be burned till he could walk no more without sandals or that were he to carry a stick then he could block blows that he could not dodge.”

The boy clenched his eyes, still holding back the tears that seemed to refuse his desire to remain hidden.

“You knew this lesson already, when we met you blocked my blow with the rocks before you, how could you not see the wisdom in carrying something constantly and being ready with it in order for just such occasions?”

Learner shrugged as the old man turned and began to walk. The boy followed, filled with conflicting emotions, some telling him there was wisdom in those words, some obstinately insisting that there was also wisdom in training without, as well as the strength in having made that decision himself.

To say that he was lucky that the man he followed did not breach the subject again was somewhat erroneous. He didn’t waste words, and he had been told once, it was then his choice to ignore the wisdom offered. Although, he was certainly free with the lessons his stick would give as they traveled.



One day, while dealing with the Kris’Talbae tribe, trading for agricultural goods to eat, and spices with which to add some small variety to the many meals of very similar foods that the pair endured on their travels as they foraged, Learner saw his first slave. It was at once both and enlightening and odd experience. As they were trading one of the warriors turned and beat the man next to him severely for failing a simple task. It was clear, though Learner had never before been so closely exposed to it, was, that the second man was not being treated like an equal. Aside from the physical scaring over where their names should have been on their backs and other places, it was the complete and utter baseness with which the man was regarded. Over the next day or so he witnessed both men and women treated like dogs, though in public the men received the worst of it Learner was old enough to know what probably happened to the women in private or during celebration.

He was wise enough to understand that some questions were best left to be asked in private after they were a ways off at the end of their stay.

“Why do they let themselves be taken as slaves? Wouldn’t they rather die than suffer so at the hands of their enemies?”

“Each person has their own wills and desires, are you so certain that you’d kill yourself were you to be forced to choose between that and the cruel hands of oppression from an enemy tribe? There are other subtleties too, though I doubt they are aware of them. We’re all slaves here. Some of us are just freer than others. “

“Huh?”

“At any time they could allow their lives to be taken from them or cast them off like undesired clothes. You or I are slaves in a way. Ponder this, the way their body would suffer, though to a greater degree, were they to cease the labors that are required of them, wouldn’t your body suffer were you to cease feeding it, or letting it drink?”

“That’s not the same…”

“You say that without even thinking about the issue.”

“It’s a matter of honor. They let their tribe die.”


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“Rocks will not be there for you every time. There will always be blows that you cannot dodge, and weapons that will break you like the surf against the shore.” The man preached openly as Learner followed. The young boy looked on, listened and paid careful attention. Always during the lessons he listened. Any other time he was free to ponder his own thoughts and wander with a blank expression, but when the old man taught a lesson he kept the boy’s attention with slow blows that a ready mind could easily dodge.

Lessons were tiring, physically and mentally. But the boy kept up with them, though every so often he caught a blow to the arm or to the ribs or in the back from a slow dodge. The old man never hit hard enough to hurt much, but the failures stung, in more ways than one. Learner wanted to succeed. He had taken after several days to calling the old man Teacher, and to hunting food for the both of them.

“You will need a proper weapon. Something with which you will be the shore against which the weapons of others will shatter against. For now though, you should find a stick. You will find your lessons less painful with one at hand.”

Learner searched each night as he hunted. But found no weapon. For now his lessons would remain painful. But his skin toughened, and his pace quickened, and Teacher had to strike harder to make his mistakes felt, and faster to land them on Learner’s skin.

Some days later, the pair were walking along when Teacher lashed out a fierce blow that Learner ducked, and rounded the stick, twisting his wrist giving it a second chance to land with half the strength, which Learner caught full on his forearm, flinching and falling to the ground, a great pain running through it. Teacher offered his hand to help his apprentice up.

“I thought I told you to acquire a stick.”

“I couldn’t find one. Suppose the wind wills me to learn without one.”

Teacher turned and walked on, saying, “Then the wind wills you pain.”

“Pain is the forge against which the mightiest warriors are fo-“

A blow interrupted the retort as fast as lightning to the temple, though fast it was less powerful than the previous strike. Learner fell to the ground again and this time the old man did not offer his hand. He did at least pause in his walking to preach as the boy recovered.

“Said mighty warriors die young, and do little with their short lives. It is the skilled, the quick, and the smart ones who change the world. A mighty warrior may be a rock, but I promise if you smash it against enough things it will crack and crumble and wear down to dust. Even the mountains are not immortal, only long lived because of their girth.”

Learner held back tears as he got up from the ground, gripping at his head, a mound of bruised flesh already welting across it, his ego searing at the verbal cuts being made.


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A wind from the nearby wall caused his cape of names to billow inward around that terrifying metal casing. It took a minute to clear his way through the cramped room smashing bits out of the way, crashing his hammer into the ceiling and smashing the ventilation pipes to the side, pinching them closed. Counters, stoves, cabinets, steel tables bolted to the ground all ripped like so many flecks of paper as he pushed them aside carefully, savoring his approach and his victim’s helplessness. The air seemed to thicken and smell of victory.

Rebellious Child of Fear looked up, a look of lucidness returning to his face as a rancid stench filled his nostrils. A look of recognition and mischief filled his blood-blinded eyes. He reached into his pouch, not even seeing the hammer swing coming and struck the floor the instant that it broke his body, a single spark flying. It was enough of a spark all the same; as the hammer smashed into his body, breaking him, fire erupted in the room exploding outward and exponentially multiplying the damage the assailant had caused, sending even the heavy suit of armor crashing to the ground outside the cylinder room.

Consciousness faded from the burning body of the Rebellious Child of Fear, and his last breath was filled with the acrid smell of his own smoldering flesh before he passed away. The armored tribesman lay in darkness as the light faded from the room with the setting sun. His cape of names burned away and the armor he wore pierced in many places with debris and in other places glowing red hot and cooking bits of the occupant in his sleep. Injured though he was, he did live, his armor also cooled, and in the darkest of the night, wake and crawl away.


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Rebellious Child of Fear clutched his shield tight as he braced himself loosely for the blow he knew would strike hard enough to lift him off the ground as though he were only a pebble in its path. He was not disappointed by the strike that came his arms shuddered despite their looseness and his body seemed to lose all its weight as the soles of his feet separated from the ground with a remarkable quickness. His shield smashed into his chest, the hammer behind it carrying him off and slinging him with ease into the far wall of the large room, knocking a table behind him and sending it spinning away before his shoulders struck the wall, which was, curiously, strong enough to withstand his crash.

“Abba’Lien, I will tear your name off your back!”

The giant rushed the wall, each crashing step resounding with metallic ring. The Abba’Lien’s vision blurred red around the edges and flickered with spots as he dropped to the ground and rolled to the left, stumbling as he stood up again backing away. He had been hit hard and did not feel that there was any length of time long enough to recover from that blow. His right arm felt separated from his shoulder and the pain was unbearable. The wall did not stand up so well against the hammer, though still better than the Child had, a spider web of cracks spread outward from behind where he had been standing a second before the sledge struck full force. Running had failed, and had been an unfitting resolution in the first place for the man who rebelled against all fear.

No retort came from his lips as he continued to weave and roll, his whole body shuddering with pain and threatening unconsciousness with every pressure connecting against his bad shoulder. The next two blows followed through the spaces he had left with great haste, striking tables and shattering them even as flew away; toppling other identical tables out of their way as they did.

The Abba’Lien was backed against the cylindrical room build in the center of the cavernous space and nimbly rolled over the countertop at the edge of it, pulling down behind him a steel sliding door, closing the window as he moved through. It was bent inward tearing and contorting itself out of its socket before he even hit the floor. His vision left him and he screamed as he clutched at his shoulder. Like the youngest child he choked for air and tears poured from his eyes. He kicked backward pushing away from the counter as the enraged warrior smashed down his hammer, ripping the counter from the floor and shattering the bricks that supported it.

Rolling away onto his good arm and regaining what little energy he could, Child kicked up to his feet and ran through the tunnel of the tiny enclosed space, finding a door and running through, slamming it shut behind him.

His pursuer smashed his way through the wall with little effort. His full body armor shimmered in the dim light of the tiny windows high above. He laughed as he worked feeling stronger with each crashing impact of his weapon against a new wall as he tore through the inner ring, where the Abba’Lien had hidden. Nothing slowed his impossibly strong, and precise strikes.

“Are you ready to die, Abba’Lien?”


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Learner could perhaps have wandered away. As the shades ghosted across the sand he remained with an effort that was beyond an ordinary boy. The next evening, perhaps as an end to a test of patience, or maybe a loss of his own, or even possibly because he felt there was simply no more time to waste leaving the boy behind, the old man resumed his path. Learner followed diligently, his resolve strengthened. If the wind meant him to stay, he would not have the strength to go. Maybe the old man eased his stride so that the boy would be able to keep pace, or maybe it was a new energy from following the path of the wind.





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“I’m not hungry.”

A darker chill seemed to emanate from the figure of the man as his strides moved with a gentle breeze on the dune as he stepped beyond the rubble of the ruins. His feet moved with such lightness that the hem of his robe swept away his footprints from the space behind him. He replied, “You will be.”

“Then I will hunt and eat my prey.”

“You are old enough to hunt?”

“I have 12 winters, I have hunted for my own food for the past 2.”

“Do the other young ones of your tribe do that?”

“Yes, but not quite so young, maybe a season older.”

“Turn around and head home, Learner, there is nothing this way for you. There is nothing this way for anyone.”

“I go where the wind blows, not where I am told to.”

The old man moved with a quick and relaxed snap, a bamboo staff flowed from under his robe and toward the boy. Learner tried to duck, spinning away from the strike, yet the weapon changed direction and caught him under the ribs, sending a burning pain through him. The man sent another blow for Learner’s head with a stern but mild strength. Learner swung to the side a rock flying from the rubble into his hand as he kicked it up with his foot, both hands wrapping around it and bracing the instant the blow struck, knocking it from his hand and sending him two feet backwards. With all his skill he remained standing to the surprise of the man.

“You didn’t try to dodge a second time?”

Learner wasn’t sure if it was deeper curiosity or irritation in the man’s voice when he asked his question. It wasn’t either one, but the timbre of his words had in fact changed ever so slightly.

“You’d change your aim again.”

The rod spun with a blur and was gone. The man continued walking, a compliment rose from him like smoke, “Very good. Learner is a good name for you.”

Learner got up and began following him again.

“I could kill you.”

“Then the wind will blow me to my death.”

“A fool would speak so. The wind doesn’t blow idly. Your death would be a useless waste.”

“Then you will not kill me.”

“You sound older every minute. Go to your tribe.”

Learner did not answer, and the old man stopped his movement. He stood that way for another day. Learner stood by in readiness. He tried once to sit, and was forced to his full readiness by another blow narrowly avoided with another rock. The old man said not a word as the night chilled around them. His silence persevered through the rising of the sun, and as the shadows moved throughout the day he stood in motionless vigil. There was no sleep, and no food for either.


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“Doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Why should it?”

“No one will miss you?”

“All of the desert are like sand. I return when the wind blows me and leave the same way. This is my people’s way.”

“When do you feel the wind will return you to your people?”

The boy lifted his head up a little, a thoughtful and slightly surprised expression creeping over his face in the orange light of dusk. Thinking he was being clever, he had rather put himself on the spot. It was endearing.

“Perhaps in a few minutes I will head back that way.”

“That certainly sounds reasonable.”

“How long have you been at these ruins?” The boy asked with a quizzical look on his face as the question occurred to him for the first time.

“Two days.”

“There’s no fire or anything here though, what about the evening chill?” Even as he spoke the air was getting noticeably cooler with the sun creeping further and further to the west.

“I have little need for fire. It’s too bright at night, and the smoke is too dark by day. A lonely life is an easier life if you can learn to live without things that draw people to you.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“Not at all. I was thinking of visiting the Re’nan when you head in that direction.”

“In that case I cannot return.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I do not know your name or what you want. I can’t bring a stranger home.”

“You’ve already pointed me in the right direction, I need only to walk till I until I come across it.”

The boy looked phased but stood by his decision, saying, “All the same…”

“Very well, young Learner, as you wish, I shall depart in a separate direction.”

The old man reached behind his head with a very easy motion, carefully pulling up a hood from the folds of his robe and drew it forward till it shaded over his eyes. He stood slowly and began to walk away with an odd stride, moving through the shadows that stretched until they were beyond the nearest dunes, where they met other shadows of other sorts.

“Where are you going?”

“Away, I have rested here too long.”

Learner got up and began to follow him, his feet moving faster to try to match the pace of the strides of the older man. His feet were still graceful, the skill of a boy maybe two or three years older. The man cast a glance to the side and behind him, the upper half of his robes twisting without slowing his walk before turning back around to face where his feet were carrying him.

“Where are you going, young Learner?”

“I’m following you.”

“Why would you do that? I imagine it will be a waste of your time, head back.”

“I don’t know, I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Eating?”


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The man chuckled. “Young master Re’nan, whose name is still empty, I give you my word that I am not of the Tahh-Ho. Who was the last Re’nan to understand the way and to change the understanding of the way?”

Empty Name sat down and thought for a minute or two before answering, “I don’t remember.”

“I imagine it has been a very long time.”

“I don’t know,” he replied thoughtlessly as he lay on his back and look up into one of the very few feathered and transparent clouds.

The two of them sat there, the day slowly passing away, an hour perhaps passed before the man sought to ask more of the boy.

“You seem quite patient for one so young, and with a name that is empty, or are you just tired?”

“No, not tired.”

“In that case, you seem to be thinking very deeply, what are you meditating on?”

“I’m trying to think where you could have come from.”

“A very long way away, a very long time ago.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where the wind wills me, as your Re’nan might say.”

“Is there adventure?”

“There is no knowing, it depends on your point of view. For one so inquisitive, it is a wonder you have not had it inscribed on your name.”

“Where is your tribe?”

“Where is yours?”

“I’ll tell if you will.”

The man smiled again, probably the most he’d done so in over a year, how odd fate was that it should put such a pair in each other’s company for an evening.

“You learn your lesson well. Would your tribe permit me to add to your empty name?”

The boy kicked his feet and looked thoughtful.

“Certainly few are as inquisitive and as sharp minded as you. I happen to have some ink with which I could do so formally.”

“No… It’s is my right as a man to have my tribe do it.”

“Well, how about I informally call you Learner?”

“It’s okay… I suppose.”

“My tribe faded away a very long time ago.” A touch of deep melancholy touched his voice as he answered the boy’s question. “And so where are the famous Re’nan?”

“That way,” the boy pointed to a place outside of the ruins and beyond view.

“Far?”

“I walked all morning.”

The man looks off toward the sun as it approached the horizon, the sky beginning to bleed orange and gold from the tan sandy horizon. Looking up his eyes saw the first of the darkening hues of the sky, the deeper blues and the beginning twinkles of stars starting to show through overhead.

“Bit of a far walk. I don’t imagine you’ll get there before nightfall, in fact, it would seem it’s already on us.”

“Nope, I don’t think so either.”


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“Did you tell me that you would only show me your name if I showed you mine?”

“No…”

“Did you hide your name that I could not see it by the light of the lady a dune away if I had wished?”

The boyhood returned to the youth as he lowered his head as beast would and shook it, indicating he understood.

“If you wanted to trade names, you should have asked first. It seems to me that you were more than happy to simply give yours out.”

The young man stood up on some sandy rubble and began jumping from one tiny dune to the next, sometimes landing on fallen walls showing through the sand, sometimes exposing them with his dancing feet.

“I know what you mean now, but it still isn’t fair.”

The man nodded his hairless head affirmatively, though the child was facing away, lost somewhat in his play.

“Are you a warrior?”

“All men of the desert are warriors, though I am not much of one now.”

“All of the desert are sand.”

“Oh? How do you mean?”

The boy looked very thoughtful as he sat down for a moment, the sun on his back and his face shadowed before he spoke very slowly, occasionally stumbling over his own words.

“All men are of the desert… I mean, all men of the desert are sand, to be…” He brought up his hand and touched his right index finger bending it back as he tilted his head up, saying, “carried to glory… on the wind…” he touched his middle finger counting a second reason in his head, “blown across the surface of the earth, touching and mingling as he tumbles. Wait… tumbles along, or buried in the earth by his fellows. He binds with others, like glass, only when inspired by the long touch of lightning on the dunes to do so.” The fingers of the boy idly rolling before he pulled back his last two as he accounted for each point of the passage spoken from memory.

“The Re’nan have wonderful poets. Still, you seem to be a tad young and a touch restless to spend your hours committing that to memory.”

“It is our way, As Re’nan we learn the way of the desert till death. Those who have lived to learn all of that the Re’nan know of the way may change it and add to it, that is how our understanding of the way grows. This is the purpose of the Re’nan.” The boy spoke the words, clearly from memory, with a blank look on his face before smiling and kicking his feet again.

The shadows had begun to lengthen across the sand, as they had talked, they were surrounded by the sound of gently rustling wind and the grains of sand rumbling over the dunes with a sound like that of the lightest rain. The sky itself seemed to lose a bit of the brightest blue that it has best at mid-day.

Some time later he jumped up after shadow boxing with a fallen wall and with a suspicious look on his face he shouted quickly, “You’re not a Tahh-Ho assassin, are you? Who are you hear to kill?”

He jumped quickly into defensive posture as he yelled his question in a voice both mature, and boyishly naïve.


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As the sun moved across the sky, a few hours past a time once called noon, it came to pass that in the great desert amid the remains of buildings long since worn away sat a very old man and a very young boy. The occasional roof remained, and the walls stood with ragged edges with the sun shining over them carpeting the ruins with a smattering of shadows. Like the desert was often doing, the sands of the surrounding area were brushing over the remains, now revealing, and now hiding bits here and there with no rhyme or reason like the waves of an ocean.

The young boy, with blonde hair that was almost white and tanned a raw dark skin that had a leathery quality almost the shade of the comfortable leggings he wore strapped about his waist with an ornamented belt, turned his bare back to the older man proudly displaying the open circle which was so recently inked upon his flesh that it was still healing.

“My name’s still empty, “ he said in an almost comical way as he twisted his body in ways that children do so as to both converse and show off all at once.

“You seem to have hardly had time to earn anything to put inside of it, your name hasn’t even healed.” The old man spoke with a slow deliberate tone that sounded like honey as his face changed with every word, his old lined cheeks stretching for each syllable. His eyes studied thoughtfully from a brow that was always furrowed, offering as much shade for his eyes as it could. A brief gust of wind caught at his robes billowing them a bit around them as he clutched the side where it wrapped around his shoulder. Beneath his robes was barely visible a pair of leggings similar to the boy’s though with a very plain strap and several strips of rawhide about his chest with various pouches tied loosely about them.

“It can’t be long, though! We Re’nan are proud warriors!” As he spoke he stood up tall, straightening out his body in mimicry of a stance of battle, waving his arms about in a violent fashion.

“Well then, in that case it certainly can’t be long at all.” The soft-spoken character stepped to the side, moving among the mottled patches of shade till he found a comfortable looking projection to rest on.

“Why are you hiding your name?”

“Hiding?”

“Uh-huh…”

“What traveler wouldn’t cover his backside from the harshness of the lady guarding the sky during their wandering?”

“Okay, but I showed you mine!”

The old man smiled at the youth with understanding.

“Well then, young warrior of Re’nan, you should not be so free with showing off your name. It is foolish to trade with the expectation of returns that have not been agreed on in advance.” At this his smile twisted a little to the right while a twinkle shimmered from the eye shadowed by left side of his heavy brow.

The boy responded with a wary but curious look, hardness in his features starting to show though the otherwise childlike mannerisms.

“You talk funny, and I don’t know what you mean.”


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